Signal Red Read online

  Signal Red

  Robert Ryan

  Bestselling author Robert Ryan tells the story of the most ambitious robbery of the twentieth century, when seventeen men risked it all in their quest for adventure, success and fame.

  1963: an unarmed gang led by the dapper Bruce Reynolds holds up a Royal Mail train at a remote bridge in Buckinghamshire, escaping with millions. The group lay low in a nearby farm but, panicked by the police closing in they clear out, leaving behind numerous fingerprints. Outraged by the gang's audacity and under political pressure for quick arrests, the police move into top gear. As huge quantities of money start to turn up in forests and phone boxes, dumped by nervous middlemen, Scotland Yard begin to track down the robbers, one by one…

  Robert Ryan

  Signal Red

  © 2010

  For Guy Barker, Michael Brandon and Ian Shaw

  Although Signal Red was inspired by and based on real figures and events, the narrative is essentially fiction. Therefore the thoughts, feelings, dialogue and action ascribed to the characters are the author's invention, and Signal Red should be understood to be a fictional account, not history. The narrative contains many characters on both sides of the law who are entirely the creation of the writer, and any resemblance to real people, living or dead, in those cases is entirely coincidental.

  A broad definition of crime in England is that it is any lower-class activity that is displeasing to the upper classes.

  David Frost and Anthony Jay, To England with Love

  Extract from An Honest Citizen's Guide to the Criminal Classes by Colin Maclnnes

  Which is the criminal aristocracy?

  Safe-blowers, accomplished breakers and enterers, robbery with violence men and reliable 'get-away' drivers.

  Have professionals characteristics in common?

  To generalise, they are above average intelligence, with good nerves, loyalty (they have to be – to 'grass' is the only real criminal crime), cheerful and humorous and not particularly vicious, outside the job.

  Why are there fewer women criminals?

  The girls (and women) participate all right but as an informant put it – 'they make the tea while the men get on with the job'.

  Are there criminal areas of London?

  Yes, just as Marylebone is for doctors, Mayfair for advertisers and Holborn for lawyers. South London has, traditionally, a greater criminal concentration than the North.

  Are the crimes masterminded?

  The notion of there being one individual who sits like a spider in his web and plans it all, but does not participate, is quite unreal. On the other hand, there are many 'jobs' – and big ones – about which the initial information that makes them possible comes from a man or men with a considerable front of respectability, and whose role is to supply vital facts, but not do the actual job.

  What are the relations between criminals and the police?

  Intimate. They are enemies, yes, but in relation to anyone who is neither a villain nor a copper, they form a closed society, rather like soldiers of two warring armies in relation to the larger mass of civilians.

  Sunday Times Magazine, 1963

  Prologue

  Blackheath, South London, May 1992

  I was aware of the blue flashes on the bedroom ceiling even before the telephone rang. I felt a cold cramp grip my insides, although my brain told me I was being ridiculous. How could they have come for you? I asked myself. After all this time? Christ, Tony, even your VAT is up to date these days. And they don't do raids in the wee small hours for VAT anyway. Do they?

  I listened to the sounds from outside, muffled by the double- glazing. There was the bark of a police controller on the radio, the distorted voice interrupted by stabs of static; a motor was still running, at idle, but hunting slightly. I thought the Met was meant to look after their vehicles? Maybe they had privatised their maintenance departments, outsourced to the lowest bidder. And look at what you got. Revs that rose and fell at random.

  The bedside phone chirruped the annoying tone set by my wife, Jane, jolting me out of my ruminations on free market forces. It sounded like a sparrow being strangled. She claimed it was less of a shock to the system than an ordinary ringing tone if a call came while you were asleep. Not when police lights were raking the room it wasn't.

  'Hello?'

  I heard a throat being cleared on the other end of the line. 'Tony? Tony Fortune?'

  'Who's this?'

  'Bill Naughton.'

  I swung my feet out of bed and squinted at the clock. Past one in the morning. My head was clouded by the residual fuzz of the late-night brandy I had downed after taking in part of the Burt Lancaster season at the cinema in Greenwich. I had seen a strange movie called The Swimmer and John Huston's The Unforgiven. Maybe that last title applied to me, too. Perhaps they hadn't forgiven me my youthful misdemeanours. I was aware of Jane stirring behind me, pushing back the duvet, releasing a few stray molecules of last night's perfume. I held out a hand to stop her saying anything.

  'Mr Naughton.' Or, more correctly, DC Billy – not Bill – Naughton. At least, that had been his rank when I had known him. 'Been a while. How are you?'

  'Retired, Tony Have been for a few years now.'

  I looked up at the lights strobing through the curtains. 'Pleased to hear it. So the fact that my bedroom looks like the last dance at the Policeman's Ball is nothing to do with you then?'

  He gave the feeble joke an appropriately dismissive snort. 'Well, Tony, I am afraid it is. I'm back, as they say, for one night only, by public demand. Or at least, some Deputy Commander's request.'

  I spoke slowly and carefully Was it time to run, at last? At every house and flat I had lived in for the past thirty years I had rehearsed it. My escape route. Out the back, over the garden wall, or onto the roof, along to the neighbour's yard. But now I was too old for that. My running days were over. 'New evidence come to light has it, Mr Naughton?'

  'Not about you, Tony.' Was that regret I could hear? 'Fact is, they dragged me from my bed, too. Youngsters are all fresh out of ideas. Need a couple of old hands.'

  'Tony? Who-?' Jane began, but I shushed her.

  'Sorry to disturb you and the missus, Tony.'

  'What can I do for you exactly, Mr Naughton?'

  'It's Roy. He's in a spot of bother.'

  Jesus, I thought, so it is the VAT after all. I might have dropped out of the life, but even I knew that a few of the old lads were playing silly buggers with importing/exporting gold Krugerrands and running VAT scams on the deals. 'It isn't my area of expertise.'

  'What isn't?'

  'Whatever Roy has been up to. I haven't seen him in… must be ten or more years. Silverstone, it was.'

  'He's shot someone.'

  Now I was fully awake. The words, though, didn't make sense. 'Hold up. We are talking about Roy James?'

  'Yes.'

  'Roy James shot someone?' It was so ridiculous I laughed at the very notion. 'Come on, Mr Naughton. That can't be right. He was never-'

  I almost heard the twang of Naughton's patience snapping. 'He shot his father-in-law, then hit the wife with the gun- butt.'

  I was quiet for a moment while I took that in. Roy was never a violent man. He'd made sure he'd stayed away from all that business. The coshing’s that were sometimes a part of the job had always vexed him. And guns? He'd ran a mile from them. 'I'll be damned.'

  'And he'll be shot dead if you don't help. And then, no doubt, he'll be damned. The one and sevens are here.'

  'Who?'

  'PT Seventeen,' he explained carefully, as if only just remembering I wasn't up on the latest jargon. 'Tactical Firearms Squad – the boys with the Heckler and Kochs and what have you. Roy's barricaded himself in the house. So they want friendly
voices to talk some sense into him before they are forced to go in guns blazing. And believe you me, these lads don't take much forcing.'

  'How's the father-in-law?'

  'How do you think? In a lot of pain. But he'll live.'

  That was something. If it had been murder, the armed police would be even more trigger-happy. 'So the idea is for you and me to talk Roy down?'

  'Yeah. Police and thieves,' he chortled. 'Working together for once.'

  'Now, now, Mr Naughton,' I protested.

  'Figure of speech, Tony. Forget it. Right – the car is outside, ready to take you to the scene.'

  It was then I remembered I had tickets for the FA Cup replay the next day. Arsenal versus Sheffield Wednesday at Wembley, courtesy of BMW corporate hospitality. 'Is there nobody else?' I felt a prickle of shame as I said it.

  It was nerves, I told myself. The nagging feeling that Billy Naughton might really have unfinished business with me, not Roy. 'What about Bruce?'

  Naughton let out a sigh. 'Bruce Reynolds is too busy with his bloody memoirs, so he says. Which puts Roy 's life in your hands, Tony. Our hands, that is. I hate to play this card

  After what, thirty years, but you owe me one. A big one, at that.'

  I did. I owed him my freedom, even though he knew, deep down, I was a wrong 'un. He had an overdeveloped sense of fair play, our Mr Naughton, to ever be a real, hard, bastard copper. As I had found out to my benefit. 'So, payback at last.'

  But sparring was over. 'You gonna help or what?'

  I was already pulling on my clothes, so I supposed I had decided to go along with his plan. 'All right then, Mr Naughton, for old times' sake.'

  His voice softened once more. 'Good man. Be nice to see you again, Tony. As you say, been a long time.'

  'Yeah.' Not long enough, part of my brain protested as I struggled with my socks, using my free hand. 'I'll see you there.'

  I cradled the receiver and explained to a bleary Jane that I had to go out to help an old friend. Jane was my second wife, younger than me, a different generation almost. She knew next to nothing of the old Tony Fortune, the one whose wife left him because of his misadventures in the underworld.

  'Who is he?' she asked.

  'A bloke called Roy James.'

  I saw her brow farrow. Like most people she could recall the names of Roy 's better-known associates, the celebrity thieves. To Jane, and most of the British public, Roy was a vague memory, a half-forgotten name. Wasn't he the fella who played the trumpet? they might ask. No, that was Roy Castle. Or the quiz-show host? Roy Walker. Desert Island Discs? Roy Plomley. If only he'd gone over the wall and ended up in Brazil doing crappy punk songs, they'd remember him then. Who?

  'He was a thief,' I went on. 'Cat burglar. First-floor man.'

  She was awake now, eyes wide. 'How on earth do you know him, Tony?'

  'It's a long story.'

  One I had a feeling that Billy Naughton, Roy James and I were going to be chewing over for the rest of what was shaping up to be a very peculiar night.

  'Try me.'

  As I leaned over and kissed her forehead, I didn't actually say the sentence that formed on my lips. I thought it best to let it die a lonely, unloved death. ' Roy was a Great Train Robber. And, come to that, so was I.'

  Instead I whispered, 'I'll be as quick as I can. Go back to sleep.'

  Part One. POLICE & THIEVES

  One

  Warren Street, Central London, October 1962

  Tony Fortune was polishing the bonnet of a signal-red AC Ace Roadster when the big Rover purred to a halt outside his rented showroom. It was a P5, the imperious political barge much loved by government ministers. Except this one was the newer coupe, with a raffish and rakish roofline. It gave just a hint of flash to what could be perceived as a very staid motor. Tony stopped applying the Super Hard Shell Turde Wax and waited to see who emerged from it.

  Recognising the spindly figure unfolding itself out of the car like a cobra emerging from a basket, he shouted to Paddy, his mechanic, who was out the back: 'Put the kettle on, mate. The poncy stuff.'

  Then Tony returned to polishing, grabbing a few more minutes, hoping to give the Ace the high lustre it deserved before his visitor came inside. He had loved cars all his life. He still had the first one he had ever owned, although it was now scratched and battered and missing a wheel. It was a maroon Series 30 Daimler, magically unearthed by his mum for a birthday during the war and treasured until peace came and Dinky Toys production resumed.

  Bruce Reynolds – the man from the P5 – beamed as he saw Tony glance up at him through the plate glass. As tall, dapper and bespectacled as ever, Bruce adjusted the collar of his cashmere topcoat, smoothed down the front, with its concealed buttons, and strode into the display area. He stood and appraised the stock with an expert eye, dismissing most of it, before nodding at the Ace.

  'That's nice.'

  Bruce had an appetite for sports cars. Last time Tony had seen him he'd been squiring his young wife Franny in a sleek Austin Sprite. 'More up your street than the Rover, Bruce.'

  Bruce looked out into the street at the P5. 'That? It's Charlie's, not mine.' No surname was needed. He meant Charlie Wilson, one of Bruce's childhood friends who had grown into a formidable blagger and hard man. 'He likes the leg room. My Aston's playing up again, so he lent it to me. You're right about the Rover, though. Bit too Reggie Maudling for my liking.'

  Tony smiled and held out his hand. Bruce made him laugh, always had. Tony's love of cars had progressed to 'borrowing' them when he was a young teenager. Which in turn had led to a meeting in borstal with an ambitious thief called Bruce Reynolds, who had a sideline in equally ambitious daydreaming. The slightly older lad used to describe in tedious detail The Good Life he would be acquiring for himself, once he pulled off The Big Job. It was a lengthy litany of quality cars, bespoke clothes, young attractive women, the finest booze and the best of mates, all to the accompaniment of the Modern Jazz Quartet and George Shearing. Even then, Tony had known it was a remarkably mature ragbag of aspirations for a young lad. And judging by the expensive sliver of a gold watch on his wrist, plus the fact that he had apparently acquired an Aston Martin, Bruce had ticked off at least some of his wish list. But Tony knew keeping up appearances was all part of the game. Bruce would walk and talk the high life even if he only had a half-a-crown in his Post Office Savings book.

  'You doin' all right?' he asked Tony.

  'Can't complain. There's more competition now, of course.'

  Since the war, when it had been Spiv Alley, Warren Street had become car dealers' row. Initially it had been pavement jobs, cash only, no questions asked about such things as logbooks. But in the past few years, the ground floors of the office blocks had been opened up into showrooms and most of the dealing was more or less legitimate. It was still buyer beware, though, and you couldn't be sure that the name of the dealers – or the salesman – would be the same from one week to the next.

  'How's the wife?' Bruce asked.

  'Fine. Franny?'

  'Good, thanks.'

  'You workin'?'

  Bruce's bony shoulders moved towards his ears in a noncommittal shrug. 'This and that.'

  The role model for Bruce might be Cary Grant in To Catch a Thief, but the 'work' sometimes fell short of that. One week it might be a safe full of cash or jewels, but the next it could easily be a few dozen packs of Navy Cut from a tobacconists or a shipment of 30-denier stockings. If there was good information and a margin to be had, you went at it. Even a thief with ambitions like Bruce couldn't go after the Crown Jewels or the Bank of England every day.

  Paddy emerged with the Darjeeling, the 'poncy' tea that

  Bruce liked. Bruce took the Castrol mug with a murmured thank you, sipped and smacked his lips appreciatively. 'The Champagne of Teas? You remembered.'

  'You banged on about it so much inside, how could I forget?' Bruce stared at him, a slight smirk on his face, until Tony admitted the truth. 'All right, I
have this guy who buys Mercs who likes it.'

  'I thought it was a bit odd, keeping a caddy just on the off- chance I turn up.'

  'Thanks, Paddy,' Tony said.

  Paddy, a weather-beaten Dubliner of uncertain vintage, gave a smile that showed just how few teeth he had and retreated back to the workshop. 'Any more trouble from Mammie Jolson?' Bruce asked, the pleasantries over.

  'No. I meant to say thanks.'

  'You already did.' Tony had sent over a case of Chivas Regal. 'But it was Gordy really what put the word in. I mean, nobody's frightened of me, are they?' Hugh 'Mammie' Jolson had tried to collect pensions – protection money – from the dealers in the street. Most had paid up; Tony had called Bruce who had said he'd 'have a word', even though north of the river was no-man's land to him and 'having a word' wasn't his true calling.

  Bruce was a thief, an opportunist, from smash and grab to safe-breaking, but he wasn't a strong-arm man. Not for him mixing it with the likes of the Krays, Richardsons, Frasers, Foremans or Hills. He enjoyed his elegant clothes and his good looks too much to get his hands dirty that way. Besides, as he said, nobody was ever scared of him; you wouldn't use Bruce to put the frighteners on anyone. But he knew men who were skilled at that kind of thing – men like Charlie Wilson or Gordon Goody.

  Charlie was your down-the-line London chancer, not stupid by any means, but he conformed to type. As Bruce said of him, he was 'a hard worker, reliable and a very funny fucker when he wanted to be'. Gordy, though, struck Tony as a strange mix – a handsome face on a thug's body, a hairdresser with a taste for Jermyn Street finery and thick gold bracelets, who was also capable of sudden violence.

  A Tony Curtis haircut and two broken arms, please, Gordon.

  Anyway, however it had been achieved – and often Gordy's trademark growl and daunting physical presence were enough to generate results – Mammie Jolson was off his back.